


I belong in the service of the Queen

by RogueBelle



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of Winterfell, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, F/M, Gen, Internal Monologue, The Long Night, Unrequited Jorah/Dany, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 09:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: Jorah Mormont's last moments, facing down the dead in defense of the queen he loves.“No, no, no, no,” she cries, as though the command of a queen could stop this inevitability. Well, and not unreasonably might she think so. He survived at her demand once. Why not again? But he was always going to die for her, some day or other. Didn’t she know?‘Mercy smiles on me after all, though. I never thought I’d get to die in her arms.’





	I belong in the service of the Queen

_ ‘I can’t do this.’ _

The realization hits Jorah Mormont harder than any blade ever could. There are too many wights and too much distance between him and the castle walls. Walls which would, themselves, give no assurance of safety. They’re dying in there, too, dying by the score.

Part of him knows, has known, that none of them would survive the night -- except, maybe,  _ her _ . If all went wrong, as it was sure to do, she had Drogon and Rhaegal to take her away. Daenerys would be safe, and for Jorah, all other considerations pale.

And then she fell, and Drogon, to keep the Night King from claiming yet another of her children, had to leave her behind.

Jorah has no idea how many of the dead he felled in order to reach Daenerys’s side in time. The blessed Valyrian steel had cut through them like -- no, there are no poetic words for it, and Jorah is no poet in any case. The Valyrian steel had cut through the dead like an incredibly well-forged sword hacking apart bone and rotted flesh. That’s all. You can’t make that pretty, any more than you can defy the odds currently pitting tens of thousands of soldiers against one man’s devotion.

He can’t do it. There are too many. He will fail.

_ ‘No excuses. Keep fighting. Keep her safe.’ _

An undead Dothraki -- insult to injury -- gets him around the chest, but just as swiftly, the weight lifts. Daenerys, his magnificent  _ khaleesi _ , has cut his attacker down.  _ ‘When did she pick up a sword?’ _ She doesn’t even know how to use it, but the wights don’t exactly require precision training. Her sword is dragonglass, and any jab that makes contact will do the necessary work. She may not have skill with a blade, but she has ferocity, and she has summoned it on his behalf.  _ ‘That’s worth living for. That’s worth dying for.’ _

But just as quickly, the wights surge again. He cuts down two, but the third gets past his guard. Daenerys stabs the wight in the throat, pushing him off of Jorah -- but the damage has been done.

Again, and again, and again. The wights keep coming, keep slashing. Jorah takes a cut across the chest, another stab to the side, and now he’s fighting from his knees. It would be so easy to fall. So easy to give up, to pitch forward under the weight of his armor and let the dead have him.

_ ‘Get up, old man. Get up. You can’t die yet. You can’t die and leave her all alone.’ _

So he gets up, again, leaning on his sword as a kind of crutch. Inside his armor, something shifts horribly, organs moving out of position, but he ignores it. He stabs another wight, and another, and another, and gods, every movement is anguish. Lifting his arm to fight is like trying to lift a boulder, a mountain. His knees feel weak, but he has to stay upright, has to stay between these grotesqueries and his queen. But he can taste iron in his mouth now, and he knows what that means.

_ ‘Can’t die yet. She’s not safe. You can’t die and leave her in danger.’ _

Thoughts flash in between the gruesome faces of the dead. He wants to tell Samwell Tarly thank you, for the sword that allowed him to defend his queen. He wants to tell fierce little Lyanna that she’s done more honor to their house than he could ever have imagined. He wants to tell Jon Snow to treat his queen as she deserves.

He won’t get a chance to say any of that, he knows. Death is coming, here and now, on this battlefield.

Daenerys’s hand touches his arm, offering support. But no -- he can’t lean on her. He’s her champion. He’ll protect her.

And the dead keep coming.

Snarling and howling and vicious, they keep coming. On and on and on until -- 

They fall, like a wave hitting the sand.

It takes a moment for Jorah to process it, another for him to trust it. The dead have fallen, and they’re not getting back up.

_ ‘She’s safe.’  _ He sucks in air. _ ‘She’s safe. It’s over, and she’s safe.’ _

Only then does he give his body permission to succumb to what it has endured. His knees hit the blood-soaked earth, and the rest of him follows. He crashes to his side, then rolls, his eyes staring up at the starless sky. All his wounds seem to make themselves known at once. “I’m hurt…” he finds himself saying.

“ _ No! _ ”

His body is broken to pieces, but that sound breaks his heart. Daenerys, dropping her stolen sword and falling to her knees beside him. She lifts him, as best she can in the weight of his armor, pillowing his head in her lap. 

“No, no, no, no,” she cries, as though the command of a queen could stop this inevitability. Well, and not unreasonably might she think so. He survived at her demand once. Why not again? But he was always going to die for her, some day or other. Didn’t she know?

_ ‘Mercy smiles on me after all, though. I never thought I’d get to die in her arms.’ _

Wracking sobs are shattering her body; he’s never heard her cry like this, not when Drogo died, not when Viserion was taken. Usually she just gets incandescently angry, but now, it’s as if something in her has cracked. She’s gulping for air, begging him to stay with her, begging him to live.

_ ‘Oh, my love. If I could. If I could, khaleesi.’ _

He wants to tell her not to cry. He wants to tell her to go and live a good life, be a good queen, be as magnificent as he knows she is, so that all the world will see in her the woman he loves, the woman worth dying for. He wants to tell her not to lose touch with her gentle heart, even if she has tried to deny it exists, even if the world has tried to harden it to stone; he wants to tell her to be kind, when she can.

He won’t get a chance to say any of that.

The night has been so dark, but she is silver-white above him, shining like a guiding star. His lungs ache when he tries to draw breath, too heavy with blood. His throat, too, is full of fluid. He can’t give voice to what he wants to say, but he tries to breathe out the words, hoping she will read them on his lips. As it turns out, he has strength for only one.

“...love...”

And then, no more.


End file.
